Dr.Frosty

O fallacious vile ruse, of booze and to “use” in order to lose all that you choose storms away from you hidden behind oil vials of impenetrable dolour and sadness. Go to the doctor and ask for a few pills to ease the night’s chills and those tremors that cascade from crown to sole and the beads of sweet sweat that cask you in your bed like a fine whiskey, a meaty peaty whiskey whose turf rots in your liver like an earthy tumour. Ask the doctor for help and she’ll stare unsympathetic at you, you beastly selfish swine! “Could you give me something to take away the anxiety?” “No you’re an addict, you’ll have to dwindle more brain cells, unless you present yourself to me charred scarred and naked like a whimpering basset hound in the rain I cannot help you! So sorry about that jajajajaja! “What about a treatment centre, I was in one in South Dublin before and I liked it and got good peace and serenity and vigour and purpose from it, what about one of them, heh?” “Well what have you against the ones in the country?” “Well I was in one of those too you see and they flagellated me with sick catholic venom and deep iconography of Mary washing Jesus’ feet with her tongue, they had me eating turf and shovelling it with my bare hands and me with chronic hayfever, the eyes pulsating out of my head like pink tissue, dropping beads of turf flecked sweat off the Limerick earth. And the food? Centra handmedowns and Tesco reduced gone off horse meat and boiled eggs that you’d crack a tooth with!” “Oh I see, well I can’t help you.” “Thanks a lot you bureaucratic mannequin, people like me, vulnerable and weary wanting to reinvigorate and revitalise and all you can posit is some marooned faux xanadu with a tenuous yet palpable sense of humiliation through redemption, the weak nurtured by the deluded and pious no thanks missus I’ll board the next train to Paris or Copenhagen or feckin’ Venice with me guitar and write incomprehensible verse and song, drenched in the gossamers of my putrid mind you feckin’ cow!”